


Hangman

by Freshly C Robinson (CeciliaDuncan)



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 07:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15190262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeciliaDuncan/pseuds/Freshly%20C%20Robinson
Summary: A game of Hangman





	Hangman

‘C’ for Control

The strong smell jolted him back to consciousness. Paul looked confused around, ‘where was he?’ His arms were spread wide and tied by the his wrists. He was sitting on his knees, his legs also spread wide and tied by his ankles. He couldn’t sit his ass down on his legs, he couldn’t really move from his place. He was tied up in a very compromising position, with no clothes on. Realizing this only now he started to panic. Did he get kidnapped!? He pulled at the ropes, but the only thing he achieved with this was the ropes pulling into his flesh burning it.

“Oh, calm down! It’s just me,” a familiar voice said.

The figure moved into Paul’s line of sight and kneeled down to look Paul in the face. It was Art, a strange look on his face. Paul growled; there wasn’t much more he could do.

“You drugged me!” Paul stated the obvious.

“Obviously,” Art admitted.

“Art, I’m not in the mood for this, untie me.” 

“No…” Art looked thoughtful as he looked over the ropes.

“You had to revert to drugs to tie me up.”

Art didn’t react.

“Weak as ever. You wouldn’t have gotten anywhere or done anything without me,” Paul taunted Art.

Art suddenly stood up and stomped out of Paul’s line of sight. Paul tried to crane his neck to see what Art was doing. He could hear rustling of fabric and Art’s irritated mumbling and scolding. 

A loud crack of the whip echoed around the room followed by a screaming pain on Paul’s back. In shock and agony Paul cried out. Art bent down to face Paul.

“Don’t you put me aside like that!!!” Art hissed.

Art’s eyes were darker than Paul had ever seen them, angry fire sparkling within. He really hit a nerve.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Paul tried to calm Art down.

Art kneeled down and looked Paul over, his teeth gritted and his eyes still mad.

“Oh no, you won’t sweet talk me this time. I know your tricks by now, but I had enough of being shoved aside and treated like your background singer.”

Paul nervously pulled at the ropes again, prompting Art to check and fasten them even tighter.

“This time I’m in charge,” he informed Paul.

“Please, Art. I don’t want to play tonight. I’m sorry I said that!”

Art shook his head: “We’re not playing this time.”

The serious tone in Art’s voice made Paul scared.

Out of nowhere Art slashed the whip onto Paul’s chest. Paul screamed in fear and pain, the burning growing on his chest.

“It’s pay time,” Art’s voice sounded barely audible and ominous.

 

‘P’ for Pride

Art walked around Paul so Paul couldn’t see him anymore.

“It’s all well you write the songs, but I think it’s time people get to know what I do to make the songs what they are. You couldn’t have recorded them like that without me.”

Art held up a new toy and had a good look at it. It was a smaller whip with lead at the end of the leather, making it heavier. He positioned himself behind Paul and whipped against Paul’s back leaving small red dot imprints on Paul’s arching and squirming back.

“I make them palatable. I give them that sparkle. You just wrote the words and the chords, empty casings waiting to be enhanced. Sound of Silence was just a lucky gift and you know it.”

Paul agreed, Sound of Silence always felt like it was written through him, not by him. He had no clue where that song came from or even how he wrote it. It felt wrong to take credit for it.

“Art, please untie me,” he pleaded with Art.

He was trembling and the tears were now freely falling from his eyes. Art didn’t undo the ropes, instead he whipped the leather with lead onto Paul’s back again making Paul scream out while desperately pulling at the ropes. 

Paul knew Art had been brooding on this; he had been quiet, more so than normally. Paul should have paid more attention, but he had been too busy with his own problems. Paul was afraid this was not a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing; he was scared Art actually planned and organized it. Paul knew Art could be ruthless and his execution of anything he did was usually perfected to the detail. If Art was really angry and really meant to pay back, Paul was in for a rough night.

“And Bridge, same thing. And what’s left when you take those two away? Not a whole a lot, huh.”

The whip slashed another trail of red marks on Paul’s back and Paul cried out again followed by more desperate pleads.

“Art, please!! Please stop!!!! Please untie me!!! I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Another white hot slash burnt into Paul’s back, followed by more screaming, pleading and crying. Art was merciless. 

Soon Art got bored with the whip.

 

‘S’ for Self-esteem

While Paul was catching his breath Art took his time picking his next torture tool and preparing it. Art wanted more than just making Paul feel his anger, he also wanted to take his control, his pride and eventually his self-esteem en respect. Art wanted it hot, in and out. He wanted to take Paul in and out.

His next tool wasn’t really a sex toy, but Art could think of good use for the object. He’d taken it from a girl’s bathroom a while back. At first he wasn’t sure why he had done that, but the possibilities lured him into stealing it. It was a curling iron. The beauty was it warmed up to an uncomfortable temperature, but not hot enough to burn flesh. Besides that, it had a nice size and form to use as an implement.

Tentative Art checked the temperature of the apparatus. His eyes gleaming with mischief and maybe even evil. He approached a writhing and squirming Paul, tears still falling from his eyes and moans still rolling off his tongue. Paul tried to crane his neck to see Art, but Art made sure to stay out of sight. 

He sat down on his knees, curling iron ready to insert. First he inserted two fingers to open Paul up. Paul pulled forward trying to get away from Art’s probing fingers. His pleads getting more insistent.

“No, Art! I don’t want that! Please!!!”

Art didn’t listen and he wasn’t too careful when he forced the hot curling iron into Paul’s entrance.

Paul’s voice penetrated the dim lit room. The curling iron wasn’t quite hot enough to scorch the delicate flesh, but hot enough for Paul to spasm in shock and start pulling even harder at the ropes desperate to get away from the burning intrusion.

Art kept up his verbal abuse while thrusting the hot thing in and out of Paul: “Now I come to think of it, the other songs aren’t exactly special either. You’re not Bob Dylan, or Paul McCartney, are you?”

By now Paul didn’t know where to look or what to listen to; anything he could focus on seemed to be hurting or eating away at his soul. He was getting out of breath from screaming and begging. All the pain was making him dizzy. He only just managed a gasp when Art parted two legs of the hot curling iron in Paul forcing him open eve further.

“There,” Art growled: “There’s a hole you can put your songs. Right where the sun don’t shine, right where they belong.”

He opened and closed the iron, pulled and pushed it. Watching the delicate flesh turn red and sensitive, listening to Paul gasp and cry. The longer he moved the iron around, the more frantic and violent he got. In the end he was simply thrusting the iron as deep in as he could while keeping the legs apart spreading Paul open wide.

 

‘R’ is for Respect

Art was now so aroused, all he could think of was relieving himself. He pulled the curling iron out and tossed it aside. He nearly ripped his zip out when he was undoing it. All he could think of was Paul’s hot insides. Roughly he aimed his penis and rammed it into Paul’s damaged ass, pushing in and up as deep as he could. The only sound Paul made was the air being forced out of his lungs when Art thrusted hard into him.

By now Paul was so exhausted and so out of breath, he couldn’t make much sound, only the air leaving his mouth and ragged inhales of breath. If he had not been tied up, he would have slumped to the floor. Art raped Paul merciless and roughly, pulling and pushing Paul in the ropes taking away every scrap of respect Paul had left after all the abuse.

Paul felt like an empty frame, used up, battered, beaten and kicked around. He just wanted to be somewhere else, to be someone else. He was even too exhausted to think of a revenge, of a way to get back at Art, make him pay. He was even too exhausted to feel he deserved at least that. He took Art’s abuse as a punishment he probably deserved.

Nothing in his body was protesting anymore when a noose was tied around Paul’s throat cutting off the oxygen supply. His limbs only started twitching and spasming when the lack of oxygen made life slip from his body. The lights went out and for a moment all existence were Art’s thrusts filling him up and spreading him open, taking what was left of him, scolding and punishing him till there was nothing left but a limp body hanging in the ropes.


End file.
